


perhaps it was sunny all along

by melpomeine



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Explicit Language, M/M, Miya Atsumu-centric, Non-Linear Narrative, atsumu-related feelings word dump basically, slight sakuatsu, there's no dialogue in this because my parents didn't pay attention to me as a child, well inarizaki won the 2014 interhigh but thats canon idc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29362098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melpomeine/pseuds/melpomeine
Summary: Atsumu Miya wanted many things. He wanted to win every match, wanted to refine his technique, wanted to defeat his twin brother in everything, and he wanted to be the best.He's twenty-six when he realises he'll never achieve that last thing.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	perhaps it was sunny all along

Atsumu Miya had always thought the weather influenced the day’s events. It was a simple thing: this meant that and that meant this. His family had grown used to the way his mind worked, how he waited until the day was _right_ to do even the most insignificant thing, how his mood dropped when the sun got covered by deep and dark clouds, how he refused to do anything when it rained. He was competitive and perfectionist by nature—he had to make sure everything worked according to the inner logic of his mind for him to succeed, and the weather was a variable he could not control, but one he adapted to.

Sunny meant easygoing smiles and bright eyes around every corner, it meant ice cream with his brother and their volleyball team, sitting down in the park a couple of blocks away from the schoolground and passing around the ball one of them would surely keep inside his bag. It meant grass-stained pants and sweaty shirts and going back home only to disappear a couple of hours later, as soon as the moon illuminated the streets and prompted him to drag the other bearer of his face outside, it mean running around parking lots and skateboarding with their best friends even though the only one who actually knew how to was Suna. It meant deafening silence and forcing his voice to yell at his brother to _hurry up, mom’s waking up soon_ , and returning to his bed before saying hello to the sun again, eyes closing as soon as his head touches the pillow. 

“D’ya think we’ll do it next time?” He would ask a tired Osamu on those nights as they lay beside a sleeping Suna, the sky clear of clouds, unlike his mind, which was fogged with the second-places and silver medals and the bitterness of almost reaching the top but just barely, of being so close yet so far away, of feeling like the world liked to mock him by keeping the trophy just out of reach, the tips of his fingers struggling to reach the last step after all the ones he has had to climb to get to where he is now—but it was never enough.

He was no stranger to the concept of _second best_ . He had been a slave to those two words since after he was born (for he was actually first, born winner), the boy laying beside him the very reason for them. He held no resentment for his brother. Not a true one, anyway. Not a blood-boiling hatred nor bond-severing ill feelings—he might’ve known ire better than most, had held its hands and borrowed its strength for longer than he’d admit, but it had never trapped his whole heart. He knew Osamu had simply been born with a slightly superior physical ability than him, even managing to be slightly taller, slightly stronger, slightly _better_ . And it wasn’t his fault. Yet he also knew the barely-younger twin could never beat the level of practice Atsumu had imbued in his sets and serves, the dedication behind his unfaltering steps towards his desired glory. Osamu was too complacent with what he naturally had, not bothering to refine it and turn it into a true weapon, satisfied with a passing grade and doing the bare minimum because he _could_ , whereas Atsumu was hungry for top marks because they were all he couldn’t have.

Being second best was a concept that had accompanied the uttering of his name forever. Implicit, unsaid, expected… but there. He was aware of that fact.

He was second best son to his father, the introverted man always finding comfort in his quieter son, who never asked too much from him, who had always understood the silent kind of love the man offered instead of Atsumu’s need for the explicit, the loud, the out-there. 

He was second best friend, Suna passively gravitating around Osamu and throwing meteorites at Atsumu which he couldn’t keep in orbit, Ginjima keeping his distance as if being around two Miyas was too much, choosing to keep them both at arms length; Akagi was friendly to both though closer to Osamu, because Atsumu wasn’t the kind of junior he could dote on, not like his twin, who accepted the mild praise and cheery remarks with a small smile, a poster child; the kind Aran would never admit having a favourite, though the distressed looks he directed at Osamu whenever the two of them fought didn’t go unnoticed by Atsumu, who was never the subject of looks that said _can you believe this guy?_ , always the guy they couldn’t believe, as if ‘Samu didn’t share his DNA, the lining of his soul. Kita was probably the only exception, but that was because he held everyone with the same esteem, only a step below his grandma—still second, but accompanied, not an all-around defeat.

He was second best Miya to his professors, who threw fond looks at the grey-haired boy and exasperated ones at him, even though he tried harder than Osamu, even though he had to watch multiple YouTube videos to understand his Maths homework, even though he slept in class and never caused too much ruckus apart from the occasional laughs here and there with his friends, even though he chose to do his final History project on a topic he actually cared about— _the evolution of the Olympic Games and the repercussions each of them had on their respective contexts: do the Olympics affect society or does society affect them?_ —instead of a generic and boring thing like ‘Samu, who always went for a safe option such as _the history of Gothic literature_ or _the conflict between Japan and South Korea_ or _religions in the Classical Era_ , because Osamu was never about taking risks, not when it didn’t interest him.

Being second best was in Atsumu’s nature as being earnest was in Kita’s, as being laid-back was in Suna’s, as being passionate was in Gin’s. Though Atsumu still wanted to finally be the best, he was also ready to swallow the world whole as long as he could keep doing what he loved, even if it meant staying in that wretched second place, the bitter taste permanently etched in his mouth.

His question, those seven words that could mean so many things yet in those moments referred to only one of them, hovered between the brothers for a few minutes. One let the question sink in, as he has been doing after every tournament they participated in as part of the Inarizaki Men’s Volleyball Team, the weight of constant silver and never gold upon their shoulders; the other carefully thought his answer.

Osamu was tired of replying the same thing but in different ways. _I don’t know, maybe, perhaps, probably, I would hope so, it depends_. He wasn’t expressive as Atsumu was, not even when he riled him up, for Atsumu was an uncontrollable raging fire and Osamu was ice cold. Blazing heat and frostbite. Both capable of burning, both damaging and dangerous, hazardous to those too close to them when ignited. Same results, different methods, different means. They were brothers, after all. 

Atsumu always told him to not even bother to answer if he wasn’t going to do it seriously. Osamu always replied that he was being serious, that there was no certainty, and that he shouldn’t get too hung up on the past, ‘we don’t need things like memories’ and all that.

That particular day, Osamu decided to change it up. 

“Next year, you’re the captain,” he’d simply uttered, eyes staring upwards, their conversation ending as abruptly as it had started.

Osamu was never reassuring to Atsumu. It was a brother thing, he assumed. He never was to him, either, so he couldn’t blame it on the other’s introversion. They were the kind to never speak, never dialogue, fighting and then making up with trivial things such as video games or volleyball practice or going to the park at night, white flags waving between them with just a few words and the resolve to forget their anger at each other.

But those words felt as reassuring and comforting as they could be. It was as if his twin knew the thoughts lingering in Atsumu’s mind, ever since they’d arrived at Hyogo after unexpectedly losing to Karasuno, the fallen crows no more. Their coach had dragged him aside as soon as he got off the bus. It had been a short talk: he was to be appointed captain the following year, so he better be taming his personality if he wanted a chance to have a functioning team for the Inter High.

Atsumu felt like he had finally won.

It was him, not Osamu, who’d been chosen to lead their team.

But with that win came doubt, with doubt came thinking, and with thinking came the realisation that maybe he wasn’t made to lead others—he was fine telling himself to go farther, to push himself harder, to get stronger, but it was because it was _him_ , Atsumu, himself. He was aggressive, he was blunt, he was rash and rough around the edges and anyone who found themselves on the other side of his razor-sharp comments would leave with a bleeding wound and a newfound dislike for him… if they didn’t have it already. It wasn’t his fault people didn’t protect themselves, though, as if he was the only person who could ever hurt them, as if there weren’t worse people than him. He was _Atsumu_ , demanding, powerful, impulsive. Unembellished words would leave his lips and find its mark, as he thought everyone should do instead of expecting sugar-coated lies and mindless praises. Kita was like him in that aspect, but Kita didn’t let his emotions overpower him as Atsumu did. Kita was serious, cold and blunt, yet his critics came from a good place, a strong grip on responsibilities and caring for others.

He didn’t know if he could get them to Nationals as Kita did, or as Mizaki did the previous year. He would fucking try to, that’s for sure. Osamu would always say that nothing’s predictable, he couldn’t promise something he very well couldn’t do, but Atsumu would make it a certainty. He deserved to reach the top, and he had no qualms saying it. Atsumu was hungry to win and keep winning, it was an appetite that would never get satiated and nothing would stop him from trying to, anyway. He would be damned if his own teammates thought he wasn’t captain material—he would shape the very concept of _captain material_ to include him, and he would be the best captain they’d have the pleasure of having. 

But he hadn’t won at all. Not yet. Not for a while.

It was sunny when he got the invitation to the All-Japan Youth Intensive Training Camp, a month before that fatidic Spring High Tournament.

Atsumu knew he was the best setter, the best server, had won multiple medals which spoke of his skills in those fronts, but Osamu was none of those things. He couldn’t win against his brother in something the other didn’t do, not after fourth grade when Atsumu decided being a setter was amazing and what he was made for, and Osamu decided being a spiker was cooler than simply supporting others, and they decided they should push each other to become better in any way they could. Little competitions aimed to see who progressed the most, who learned the most, who was dynamic enough to be sized as a threat to other teams. Osamu wasn’t his competition in his specialties, so those achievements didn’t matter. He was first, yes, _the best_ , but because of a lack of fulfilling competitors. It was him and his brother since they were born—how could he measure himself against other scrubs? The bar was on the floor.

But that only meant he had another obstacle in front of him: a setter who did compare to him, and he didn’t like it.

He didn’t have to win against anyone in his own game before, the undisturbed king when it came to setting the ball, unchallenged in Hyogo and nationally. The previous year he’d seen teamwork and individual talents, but no setters who actually did what he could: providing the best toss, the easiest ball to hit, so that the spikers could shine brighter. The ones who stood out were the wing spikers, the middle blockers—to stand out as a setter you had to be exceptional, have an amazing synergy, and be accompanied by an ace who stuck out, mostly, because of you. Atsumu had all of that. No one came close. 

Tobio Kageyama became more of a nuisance as he came to know him in that week. He’d thought one thing of the younger boy, the prodigy, the setter of an unknown team, that came to bite him in the ass a month later. A goody-two-shoes, a setter who didn’t ask for anything but critics, who did what was asked. But he was wrong, oh, so wrong. Kageyama was more observant and demanding than he gave him credit for, clashing against him, serious versus carefree, one who pushed others to get better and one who made others _think_ they got better.

Kageyama meant pushing himself harder, trying again later, adjusting strategies and competing with someone other than his own brother. Kageyama meant a turning point, a threat to his goals, a warning bell, a chopping block, a tighter grip around his throat. Kageyama meant a change in the tides, a ripple in his otherwise calm lake, a butterfly effect. Kageyama meant the weight of the crown on his head, that handmade thing worn with pride and joy, got heavier and heavier as he continued to progress and Atsumu continued to watch the younger setter catching up to him, reaching that which took him so many years to achieve, maybe even...

Whatever. He won against Kageyama the following year.

(Inarizaki got the gold. It was sunny. A certainty.)

Cloudy meant an extra layer in case it rains, black coffee first thing in the morning and a kiss on the cheek from his mother to warm him up from inside. It meant hiding his head inside his arms above his desk as he rested his eyes (another way of saying he fell asleep in most of his classes), it meant staring out the window beside him as the clouds threatened to break and the plants begged to be drenched, it meant asking his brother for his notes—more like blackmailing him for them with the help of Suna and his trusty photo album—and messily copying them before the next class, and it meant being grateful for practice as it kept him away from the chilly streets. It meant jogging back home and playing Pro Evolution Soccer with Osamu while hiding below a blanket to insulate the little body heat he could keep, it meant hot chocolate before going to bed, it meant sneaking to the backyard to play with his volleyball while his family rested because he had to get better, he needed more time, he had to surpass them all. It meant a humid next day, umbrella in hand and trying not to slip on the way to school. Cloudy meant rainy and happy crops, happy Osamu, unhappy kids, and unhappy Atsumu.

It was raining when Osamu told him he would stop with volleyball after high school.

The day had started out fine. Wake up, sunny, school, sleep, practice, home, PlayStation. There was tension in the air, enough for Atsumu to feel as if there wasn’t enough air in his lungs, but he didn’t understand where it was coming from. Not when his brother stayed more silent at school than usual, thinking it was because of the last few weeks before the dreaded third year approached them. Not when Atsumu made a fool of himself in front of the team by tripping multiple times with his own feet and Osamu didn’t make a single comment about it, didn’t even laugh at Suna’s retorts, gaining a weird glance from the middle blocker and an unsettling feeling to lodge in Atsumu’s gut. Not when practice seemed to go smoother than usual, the stomach-dropping silence before a storm brewing around him. He didn’t understand until Osamu asked him to walk to the park with him in the middle of the night, the promise of a little practice when they came back ensuring Atsumu would follow him. 

It made him uneasy, to wait for Osamu to speak as if he were about to be scolded. He cracked a comment or two on the way there, one to start a conversation and one to mock him, yet all he got was a blank look and silence in return. His brother was usually silent when there was nothing to prompt him, opening up just barely whenever he hung around Suna, yet it was a rare occasion when he silently walked alongside Atsumu, not replying when he tried to rile him up because he was bored. He was quiet, but never _this_ quiet. Osamu looked younger, for the grey in his hair was unnoticeable under the moonlight, cast in shadows and a little fog. It looked as it was back when they didn’t damage their hair with bleach, after Osamu accepted Atsumu’s request to dye their hair to replace their old name-embroidered shirts, of being the sun and the moon, bright and dim, a part of each of their favourite days permanently stained in their heads.

He made it quick. They reached the swings, the creaky old chains stuttering under the weight of the brothers’ too-old-to-be-there builds. It had just started drizzling, the fresh damp air hitting Atsumu in the face. Osamu only said a sentence, a couple of words spat out as if he couldn’t hold them any longer, making Atsumu wonder just how long had he kept them inside him, how long had he stared him in the face and thought of abandoning him. That sentence alone was enough to embed itself in Atsumu’s chest, clogging his lungs and his throat and disabling his perpetual speech long enough for Osamu to leave his side, as silent as ever, his steps lighter than before. 

It started to pour as soon as ‘Samu left his field of view.

Atsumu Miya was a competitive person, he had no trouble admitting it. It was one of his best qualities, actually, the source of the respect most people had for him. Competitive meant driven, it meant doing everything in your power to achieve your goals, it meant using every resource available and training harder to make use of yourself, too. Competitive meant responsible, in a way that was unlike Kita’s, it meant an aggressive type of responsibility; selfish, even. Authoritary. Competitive meant measuring himself against others all the time—he won, each and every time.

Each and every time, except against one person.

Osamu. His brother, his twin, the one who accompanied ever since they were born, and even before. Osamu, motivated by Atsumu. Atsumu, motivated by Osamu. They chased each other’s tails ever since they developed a conscience and managed to become better because of it—there was no better competition than the one you came to the world with, no better than the person who knew you inside out.

Osamu had always been competitive, but only against Atsumu. He wasn’t power-driven, success-hungry, thrill-seeking. He didn’t try to be better, he just _was_ , and that meant less effort to remain on top. But he was only deemed better because of Atsumu, his only measuring rod. Atsumu spent his life trying to overtake him, competitive by nature. Osamu spent his life trying to gain back what was taken from him but never going out of his way, complaisant by nature, though hardly ever noticed. There was only one time Atsumu recognised hunger in his brother, an extra-familial competition, that desire to win against someone else that wasn’t him, and it was with Shoyo Hinata when they discovered Karasuno was a good match for them in terms of team rivalry.

(Osamu’s hunger bled into Atsumu, and he eventually got to satiate it by accomplishing his promise and tossing to Shoyo a few years later, in two different teams. It wasn’t like being his brother’s setter, nothing would ever be, but it felt damn close.)

One could say that, in retrospective, this lack of care for volleyball would’ve made it apparent to Atsumu that his brother wouldn’t follow his steps towards a professional career in the sport. Osamu’s frustration at _not feeling frustrated enough_ when Atsumu got chosen for the All-Japan Youth and not him, when he admitted that Atsumu was crazier about volleyball than he was… That should’ve been interpreted as an early symptom of the divergence in their paths. But it had never felt that way. It hadn’t even crossed his mind the fact that, perhaps, his twin had other aspirations. Atsumu had felt like his twin would remain by his side whatever they did, no matter what. It felt impossible that the bond they had formed after so many years on court together, a setter and his spiker, a brother and his twin, Atsumu and Osamu, would eventually break.

When he imagined his future, it was always winning medals and trophies with his brother by his side wearing the same jersey as him, the nationally-recognised Miya Twins. No, _internationally_ -recognised Miya Twins. His name had always followed Osamu’s, Osamu’s had always followed his, their last name both singular and plural. Now, it seemed the faraway jersey with Miya on the back of it wouldn’t have another one accompanying it yet with a different number. There would only be one Miya on court.

Atsumu was left alone. That was one thing he’d never imagined being.

He’d never cared if his teammates liked him or not. It was just him, his sets, and the ability they had to strike them. If they couldn’t, he wouldn’t bother with them. If they could, it was thanks to him. It had nothing to do with how they felt about him off the court, if they hung out with him, if they invited him to their birthdays and such. Osamu was kinder in that aspect—had vowed to be kinder when he realised his junior high team hated Atsumu, had vowed to never be like him. His teammates liked Osamu, but never him (it wasn’t until Inarizaki, that is, when he learned he could have friends within his team with his shitty attitude, but we’re not talking about that right now). Yet Atsumu had never felt alone, because, at the end of the day, the one who’d always be beside him was Osamu. They might have fought way more than normal siblings, they might’ve left some scars on the other because of their recklessness, they might’ve spat harsh insults to each other, they might’ve brawled more than they talked, but Osamu was the one who’d always understood him, the truth behind his words, as Atsumu had always understood him, no words needed.

It was a fact: he was never truly alone if he had Osamu on court.

So, yeah, sue him for storming back into the house with his hair stuck to his face and his clothes dripping rainwater onto the floor, harshly grabbing the subject of his anger and yelling at his face that he was a good-for-nothing, that cooking food and feeding others will never bring him any joy nor accomplishments as volleyball would for Atsumu, that he was a fool for abandoning the thing in which he has worked for so many years, the thing he was best at, and that he didn’t want to talk to him anymore. Sue him for leaving Osamu there, wide-eyed, angry-gazed, as he took one look to his parents faces in their bedroom’s doorway and understood that they’d already know, that he was the only one who was left out in this life-changing decision, and yelled at them too, because _how could they let him do this! He’s ruining his life!_

It was justified, really. After his third year, he’d be alone. No Osamu on court meant loneliness everywhere else. And he knew that he would have never done that to ‘Samu.

(That was because volleyball, for him, was like breathing; just like food was to Osamu. But he understood that much later.)

He thought he’d lost the hand pushing his back, pushing him forwards, when Osamu left him under the rain that night. But the next day brought practice, and practice brought feelings bottled up, and feelings bottled up meant another brawl, and that brawl brought a promise:

_“When we’re on our deathbeds, I’m gonna turn and look at you right in yer face and say I had the happier life!”_

Their last competition. The last nudge ahead. And he was going to win.

* * *

His brother knew, even if he has never said it out loud, that Atsumu has only ever wanted one thing and one thing only. Atsumu doesn’t think he has admitted to himself yet, though he does skirt around that fact sometimes, accompanied by a cold glass of sauvignon blanc—he was a white wine type of guy—and the blurred ghosts of those people he couldn’t keep in his life, whether because of his hurtful words or their inability to deal with such a character ( _their fault, not his_ he reminds himself) and the mistakes he has made over and over again to those who still remain by his side. He was ambitious, pushed and pulled and bared his teeth whenever his goals became threatened by someone else, but sometimes he wondered… well, he wondered many things. Mainly, if he had been competing against someone else, entirely. 

A stupid question, yes, but it could very well throw his whole solar system out of its orbit, crash a couple of planets, form a new asteroid belt, push two suns together and create a massive problem that could very well be a supernova or a black hole or both, actually (he didn’t pay much attention in science class), and he wouldn’t know how to solve any of that. This was also known as an _identity crisis_.

He couldn’t ponder about it. Not then, not when many great things were in his line of sight. The Atsumu of the future could deal with it later.

It was sunny when he signed the contract with the MSBY Black Jackals. Actually, he waited until the skies cleared to call them and give his _yes_ , because sunny meant good, and good meant success, and Atsumu wanted nothing but that. He had already made himself clear.

“It’s done,” he hastily spoke to the phone as soon as he heard an intake of breath on the other side of the line. He left the building with his heart threatening to leap out of his throat, yet he knew he had to call his twin as soon as he could, whether it was to brag or to celebrate. The mixture of both was familiar for the twins. ‘Samu had answered on the fourth ring, not too soon (as he always did, to not let Atsumu think he was eager to hear ‘ _his god-awful voice_ ’) but not too late, his way of showing his brother he actually cared (third ring was reserved for their mother, second ring was just for Suna). It meant calling his mom, texting Kita and reassuring him that he did not, in fact, cry when he did sign the papers, as the older man had said he would—he cried when he got home, cried when he packed all his stuff around his shared room that had been there for so many years it felt illegal to take them out of it, cried when he slept for the last time on the top bunk, cried when he hugged his brother on the train station, cried when he entered his new and lonely apartment… but that's another story.

“Congratulations,” replied Osamu, and he could hear the smile on his voice. “Ya deserve it, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu almost thanked him.

“Hope yer teammates don’t kick ya out too soon, though.”

He hung up the call.

People often told Atsumu he was blessed. It was such a blessing to have such physical prowess as a setter. It was such a blessing he managed to get into Inarizaki, a powerhouse school. It was such a blessing to have such efficient teammates. It was such a blessing to win Nationals in his last year there. It was such a blessing to sign with a V. League Division 1 team fresh outta high school.

He was _not_ blessed. His only blessing was Osamu, not that he’d ever tell him that, but that was it. Saying he was blessed was invalidating the effort he had made to become the setter he was today, it meant negating all the evenings studying until late to enter Inarizaki, it meant denying he had made his teammates work harder and get better, it meant discrediting the years of practice and dedication to become the best that made him stand out to the teams that scouted him.

Atsumu wasn’t blessed. He was hardworking. He wasn’t a genius, a prodigy, or anything of the sort. He was well aware of the differences between him and those truly gifted, and he had worked his ass off to reach the same level. He’d be damned if someone were to deny him and everything he’d achieved by toiling harder than them.

MSBY Black Jackals was one of those goals, one that looked too far at some point yet now he was right there, shaking hands with the man he had to start calling _coach_ the following month.

If you had asked the Atsumu Miya of yesterday what his biggest accomplishment was, his answer would take a long while. He would probably rant about the many things he has achieved in his life: beating his twin, winning Nationals with his high school team, getting scouted by too many teams, becoming starting setter after a single season with the Jackals, having too many monsters eating from the palm of his hand, being recognised by all his teammates as their favourite setter, being the one who gives the easier tosses to spike. Perhaps, with a saccharine tilt of his lips and a special glint in his eyes, he would brag about being his mother’s favourite boy, or having the same face Rintaro Suna has loved since his first year in Inarizaki, or being Kiyoomi Sakusa’s first kiss. To his favourite person, he would gladly admit his biggest accomplishment was keeping him around, despite his continuous attempts to both annoy and endear him. To his brother, he’d say his biggest accomplishment was being happier than him—there was no doubt about that, nor would there be in the many years it’d take for them to reach their deathbeds.

In short, there was no exact answer, for Atsumu wasn’t sure what he valued the most: his handmade crown, worn since childhood? The solid-gold one he later came to receive, as a token of his accomplishments? The thorned one, the one reminding him of his every loss, digging into his head? The person who came to the world with him? The person who doesn’t mind the walls around his heart? The people who stayed with him without having to? The ones who supported his rise to the top? The material or the emotional?

He decided he didn’t know how to answer that vital inquiry. He could say all, he could say none. But nothing truly satisfied him. All he knew was that Osamu would’ve been able to answer firmly. Perhaps he’d say just one thing, perhaps many, but he’d know what to say and he’d be sure of it, no doubts lingering at the end of his words, lightly lifting his tone and leaving room for a follow-up, like Atsumu would. That was enough of an answer for him by itself.

* * *

  
  


It was always cloudy when he met Kiyoomi Sakusa, which was something he didn’t understand. Not until much later, that is.

The first time he saw the unusual spiker was in his first Interhigh National Tournament, back in summer of 2011. Atsumu was sixteen, bright-eyed and proud of holding the title of starting setter in his first year, as well as being accompanied by his twin and continuing their infamous plays together since junior high. He’d heard the name _Kiyoomi Sakusa_ in previous tournaments, had marveled at the wonder in other people’s eyes whenever they talked about the craziness of the boy’s wrists, and had felt as curious as any other setter would when presented with the opportunity to toss to someone special. Not that his teammates weren’t special but… new things were new things, and Atsumu was Atsumu, and he liked playing with new and unique toys. Sakusa seemed to be as unique and exciting as it could get.

But he had never had the pleasure of meeting the unusual spiker face to face, for their teams were always in different brackets and none of them faced each other in the finals, and he’d been told Sakusa had a quite interesting personality, choosing to mope in room corners instead of approaching other players, only ever followed by his own cousin. Atsumu had come across many types of special spikers—left-handed, flexible, too short, too tall—but never hypermobile. Never with the mad spin others had attributed to Sakusa. And he wanted to meet him, to know him, in every way he could.

(He told himself it was curiosity. It might’ve been, at some point.)

It seemed fate had withheld their encounter for later, because when Atsumu finally met Sakusa, the dark-haired boy’s team completely crushed Inarizaki’s blockers (Suna wasn’t a regular yet, he was too lazy and their coach hadn’t yet understood his tendency of slacking as soon as they got the lead) and Itachiyama had promptly reached the twenty-five point mark in their third set before they even reached twenty. 

Second best. Silver medal. A step below in the podium. A bittersweet achievement. First of many, one of many, definitely not the last.

Atsumu remembered staring at the boy with Sakusa printed on the back of his jersey, his dark eyes peering into the soul of everyone who was subject of his gaze, a deep stare as pressing as Kita’s yet not quite as intimidating—he’d never tease his senior nor annoy him more than needed, but this boy, with his twin moles above his brow and his incredible wrists and his strikingly cold and attractive face, made him want to open his mouth and never shut up again.

In true Atsumu fashion, he’d pointed at him, had said _we’ll win next time_ and had received a blank stare in return, yet it had only made him eager to fill it with something else than just boredom.

(He didn’t fulfill his promise until his third year, but who’s actually counting?)

He saw him again when they were outside the complex, the withdrawn boy accompanied by the cheery Motoya Komori, Itachiyama’s first-year libero, but Atsumu kept his distance, whether by the weather—the looming grey sky had only made him wary, he knew he shouldn’t be rash when the weather wasn’t right, that day’s result was doomed from the start—or by the presence of his seniors all around him, or perhaps it was the way they were praising Osamu’s performance and his need to be there beside him, the other side of the coin, to receive something, too (which he didn’t, but that’s okay. Second best, silver medal, a step below, one of many. It was a mantra at this point).

The next times were at the Spring Interhigh and his second Interhigh Tournament. It was the same, all over again: cloudy weather, humidity gripping his skin and making him groan at the uncomfortableness of his sticky uniform, being careful not to let too much sweat gather in his hands as to keep his tosses as neat as possible, trying to fight against his premonition that cloudy meant bad and bad meant not winning and not winning meant second best again and again and again, trying to go against his very belief-system and tell himself that the weather didn’t mean anything, _this time we’ll win_ , but, of course, he was never wrong. Atsumu was Atsumu and cloudy meant cloudy, as bad meant silver medals and silver medals meant glaring at the spiker who’d snatched the title away from him, thrice in a row, and glaring at Sakusa meant wanting to set for him more than ever because his spikes were incredible and he wanted nothing more than to give him the easiest tosses so that his full potential wouldn’t be constrained by a mediocre setter who didn’t stand out like _he_ did.

He didn’t get the chance to set for him until the All-Japan Youth Intensive Training Camp. It had been a little exercise, he just had to let the spikers hit the line at the back, a simple precision practice. Sakusa didn’t even look at him, Atsumu didn’t get the chance to say anything to him, Sakusa didn’t do anything weird or funky or exciting, and Atsumu felt like the food in front of him had been suddenly scooped up without letting him get the opportunity to have a bite. He’d heard Kageyama ask the spiker if he was holding himself back, for there was nothing impressive about him displayed throughout the camp—honestly, even the janitor’s sweeping was more exciting than the average spikes Sakusa had delivered that week—but he didn’t think he’d actually meant it. Atsumu had thought, _I’m going to give him the best set, and he’s going to hit it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and his wrist will do its funky thing and then everything will be right in the world_.

But only two of those things happened, and Atsumu was still hungry.

It was raining by the time he got out of the gymnasium. Strong wind snapping at his face, stealing what was left from the long-forgotten warmth inside his drenched clothes, the bellowing sky mirroring the thunderstorm inside his mind.

Atsumu didn’t get to play against him again. Karasuno took away his next chance in the Spring Interhigh just after the camp. In his third year, Kamomedai was the one to take out Itachiyama and face his team; and at the next tournament he didn’t reach the finals, where that last chance was patiently waiting for him.

It took him almost five more years to satiate his hunger and properly set for Sakusa. 

The addition of a collegiate player meant adapting around a different playing style and forming a different dynamic than the one he’d formed with Koutarou Bokuto, whom he’d faced in high school as Fukurodani’s ace and had readily become the closest friend he had; or the one with his captain, Shugo Meian, who took him to bars and treated him to ramen, sometimes; or the one with Shion Inunaki, the libero, who made fun of him (and the whole team, but mostly him) as Suna and ‘Samu used to.

But he was Atsumu Miya, the best setter in his eyes and in the eyes of the beholder (the beholder being everyone who spiked his tosses, of course), and Atsumu Miya adapted to everything and everyone in order to reach the top. Sakusa’s arrival was unexpected, and they might’ve clashed more than they’d matched, giving the coach more grey hairs than Atsumu and Bokuto combined, but he knew the pretty boy appreciated his sets—no college-volleyball-team-setter would ever come even close to him, that’s a given—and Atsumu cherished every single spike that successfully smashed against the other side of the net. If playing against an unusual player like Sakusa was exciting, playing _with_ him was addicting.

It was snowing when he decided he loved Kiyoomi Sakusa. He’d never seen the snow before (he wasn’t from the north of his prefecture, where snow heavily coated the streets whenever winter approached. All he got from December to February was dry coldness and freezing winds, harsher against his skin than a slap). He didn’t know what to think of it.

Atsumu was pretty sure he understood what love was. He had a loving family, an annoying brother, and amazing friends. He loved them all, he was sure of that. And he didn’t want to decrease the level of affection he had from them in comparison to the one he had towards his boyfriend.

But it was different.

Love with Sakusa was different.

It was way before getting into a relationship with him, when Atsumu got in a slump, his new serve not functioning as he wanted to and his brother merrily laughing at him because _Onigiri Miya’s expansion is well underway, ya scrub! I’m winning!_ and Bokuto trying to cheer him up but failing because thoughtless praise wasn’t what Atsumu needed nor wanted and Shoyo, sweet Shoyo wasn’t there that day to give his honest praise that seemed to come too easy for him, always starry-eyed at his seniors’ plays and eager to let them know. Sakusa had approached him, silently picked up a volleyball and started to practice his own serves beside him. Atsumu was fuming, already frustrated from the multiple failed balls surrounding the net, and he demanded to know if Sakusa was teasing him or showing off or something, telling him he was not in the mood to stand him like this. All he got as a reply was the slight raise of an eyebrow and a “ _can’t you handle a little competition, Miya?_ ”.

That got him going.

Soon, those little competitions in practice reached the real matches, and his friendly little contests with Sakusa—who got the first service ace of the match (Atsumu was first in rotation, so it was usually him), who got more service aces in total (if he got his new serve to work, it’d be him), whose serves got digged less (Sakusa’s, those wrists worked wonders), etcetera—became the source of many of his improvements. Those little contests then bled into their personal life—who kissed the other first (Atsumu), who kissed the other more (Atsumu), who provoked the most moans (Kiyoomi), who stained the other’s neck more (Kiyoomi), etcetera—, and became a day-to-day thing for their teammates to both bet on the things that happened on the court as well as ignore every remnant of those outside it.

It was because Sakusa had taught him what a competition truly was: fun, yes, frustrating and motivating, too, but never heart-wrenching, hope-crushing, leaving him with no drive to keep going and bettering himself, slack-shouldered and moping.

It was because, by simply being there just one evening, Sakusa had made more of an impression than most people had in years.

Love was when he found solace in the crook of Kiyoomi’s neck. It was when he woke up in the morning and saw his breakfast on the table along with a sleepy Sakusa washing the dishes, because he knew Atsumu could do anything else around the house, could scrub and sweep and clean everything, but he hated touching wet food or anything related to it. It was when Atsumu went to sleep alone and hugged a pillow close to his body yet still felt unsatisfied because it lacked the warmth Sakusa exuded, and because the pillow didn’t hug him back; and because even if it could, it would never know the curves around his body like Sakusa did. It was when, after a particularly harsh match, Sakusa took him on a long walk at night, then back to his apartment, and in between warm kisses and snarky remarks, whispered little reassurances to him—the thing with Kiyoomi was that he didn’t sugarcoat nor did he lie for the sake of others, everything he said was as honest as it could get, so those words maybe wouldn’t be considered as comforting for other people; but Atsumu, who knew Omi like the palm of his hand, who disliked blatant lies to his face and undeserved praise, understood what those words truly meant, why were they spoken, and that his boyfriend would never deceive him. It had been the foundation of their relationship: the truth. Then came the communication, and, alongside it, the respect of their boundaries.

Atsumu was competitive, impulsive, harsh, blunt. But so was Kiyoomi. He was quiet, yes, a stark difference against Atsumu’s overexerted vocal cords, which were already used to the lack of rest. But Kiyoomi was so straightforward it felt like a yell, so honest it was almost rude, so blunt it felt like a punch in the throat, so competitive it meant he had found someone like him, so impulsive when it came to Atsumu it was a wonder they hadn’t already fallen into each other’s hands before. His match, his equal, in everything from the emotional to the occupational. Atsumu might’ve been a pain in the ass sometimes, might’ve been too much to handle, might’ve driven away many people in his life because of this (not that he cared, he was never one to keep around people that didn’t truly like him), but Kiyoomi had stayed. Had cherished the good, had cultivated the ugly, had relished in the dirty. Had competed against him, knowingly and unknowingly. Had pushed him forward. And Atsumu had done the same for him.

It’d been so simple, going from teasing the spiker and receiving nothing but a glare to feverishly kissing him against the door of his apartment; going from practicing together their tosses and spikes to holding hands as soon as both were thoroughly cleaned and headed to one of their houses; going from glaring at each other and spitting insults to sharing house keys and keeping a pair of slippers specially for the other. 

And Atsumu loved him. And as soon as he realised that, he told him. Because he was Atsumu, and he was blunt and rash and all things _Atsumu_ . And because Omi was Omi, honest and blunt and all things _Kiyoomi_ , all he whispered was an ‘ _I know. Me too_ ’ on Atsumu’s neck, enjoying the soft lull of the rain against the window that melted the snowflakes already settled on every outside surface (or turned them to frost), the faraway shouts of the clouds, the thump of Atsumu’s heart. And that was that, a simple confession of love, as simple as it had appeared, as simple as it had developed, as simple as it had got them together.

Nothing had ever been simple for Atsumu. Not until _loving Kiyoomi Sakusa_ became something as automatic, involuntary, incessant, and simple as breathing.

* * *

  
  


It was raining when he got the call. It threw him off. That was the first day he didn’t agree with the weather (he was actually angry at it. He’d spent years and years making sure every single important day in his life, the ones he could control, took place under sunny weather, and _now_ it was raining? They decided to call him when it was fucking _pouring_? He couldn’t believe it).

Atsumu was just outside his apartment, leaving to buy some snacks at the corner store because Kiyoomi craved some ice cream (as he always did when it rained or when it was cold), one hand closing the door that led outside the building, the raindrops starting to dampen his hoodie-covered head, and the other gripping his phone, hiding it in his sweatpant’s pocket. He felt it vibrate as soon as he left the safety of the little roof above the door, which did virtually nothing against the storm, and he proceeded to accept the call just because the short walk would be too boring if he just kept staring at the ground as to not trip with anything.

When the speaker told him the reason he was calling, his hand almost let the phone fall to the very wet, very dirty ground.

In fifteen seconds, he’d reached his apartment’s door. In ten more, he’d said yes to a meeting the following day. In twenty more, he was gripping Kiyoomi’s cheeks in a very sudden, very wet kiss—both for the rain and for the tears running down his face.

The sound of Kiyoomi’s phone interrupted them.

In one more minute, they were both on the Japan Men’s National Volleyball Team.

That call meant every extra practice he had done throughout his life had actually accomplished something. It meant his goal, his ultimate desire, the last pair of words written in the worn and wrinkled paper he’s kept since his childhood. It meant everything was in front of him. 

He was used to being second best.

When he got the call, that life-changing call, he knew he would be signing for a lifetime of being second best. It took no genius to know who else was going to be on the team, who had already been in it before him. Grey might’ve been Osamu’s favourite colour, but silver had always accompanied Atsumu. He knew that since he played against him in his second Spring High National Tournament and promptly lost because he got too cocky, got too excited to finally have a match against him, too happy to have a duo to take a stand against him and his brother, too hungry to win, too starved. He knew since he played against him the next season, taking back that loss and feeling like he was on top of the world. He knew when he couldn’t keep the title he had acquired too comfortably. He knew when he played against him as a MSBY Black Jackal for a couple of seasons, gaining both wins and losses, yet the disparity was all-too familiar for him.

Atsumu would never win, not against the world, much less his own country, his own team. 

Tobio Kageyama was cut out from the same cloth as Osamu was. Raw, natural talent dripping from his each and every pore. Their only difference was that Kageyama was volleyball-crazy, and he actually cared about refining his form, thus molding that talent into the monster he had become after years and years of training mixed with innate ability. He was their starting setter, the first choice, the top of the country. The prodigy, the genius, the truly blessed one. The best setter. Currently ranked first server. Number one, first, _the best_.

But, as Atsumu sat down on his couch, hand intertwined with his boyfriend’s, his teammate, he realised that thought didn’t sting as it used to. He wasn’t the best, he didn’t think he’d ever be, but when he realised that, it wasn’t to chastise himself for not trying enough. It wasn’t a way to tell himself to _keep going_. He didn’t need that anymore. 

Is the crown heavy by itself? Is it heavy because he has placed so many of his ambitions in it that now it feels unbearable to hold? Is it heavy because of the weight of other people’s expectations of him—expectations he had fueled, expectations he had sowed? Or was it the many years behind it, the many times he had pictured himself wearing it, and the thought that he has never been deserving of it, nor would he ever be, not until he got the title of _best_ somewhere around his name? Was it the sense of self, the belonging, the right-by-birth he had placed in something he hadn’t achieved yet? 

He’d worn a crown most of his life, one Atsumu had placed on his head himself. Firstborn, first to determine where his life would go, first to accomplish part of that path. It was too heavy at times, the weight lessening as he kept going, but it was almost impossible to keep it steady when everything around him was a competition, a continuous stimulus, a continuous battle for his attention, ever-changing, ever-present, ever-ready. 

At some point, he’d realised he couldn’t keep trailing after others for the rest of his life. Nor could he change one competition once the current one became unfulfilling—his life-long competition with Osamu was incentive enough. He couldn’t depend on his brother to constantly challenge him on court, not anymore. It might’ve been enough to get him through compulsory education, but the rest was on his hands, and no one else’s. He couldn’t depend on others forever, that had become clear as soon as he entered a team: everyone does their part, the different elements of a whole complementing each other and surpassing abundantly their individual strengths. He couldn’t depend on Kiyoomi, even though it was fun, even though it had become a replacement for the lack of hand-pushing-his-back, because it was never truly _wanting to best him_ but more of _wanting to best himself_.

Ah. Yes. That was it.

Atsumu had always thought the weather influenced the day’s events. It was a simple thing: this meant that and that meant this. The weather was a variable he could not control but adapted to. Sunny meant success and happiness and all things right. Cloudy meant losing and sadness and all things wrong. Raining meant _hide yo’ kids and hide yo’ wife,_ or, alternatively, _winter is coming_.

Now, as a twenty-six year-old professional volleyball player, he’s decided he has to redefine both cloudy and raining as _foretelling_ and _hopeful_ instead of _disaster-bringing_. Honestly, those days have brought him more happiness than the stupid sun ever did (yet he still kept it painted on his hair, yes, let him be. He looks hot as hell with a good toner).

If you asked Atsumu Miya what his biggest accomplishment was, his answer would be simple. Nothing too long, nothing too difficult to understand. Enough for people to understand him, enough for everyone to realise he has actually thought it through. It was short, concise. Perhaps too transparent, perhaps too complex. A single word.

What he’d hidden away in the deepest part of his soul, what he’d drowned under glasses of wine and suffocated below his brother’s onigiri. The answer to that stupid question, the one that had plagued his thoughts ever since he’d decided he couldn’t reply to it truthfully, wholeheartedly, sure of himself.

_“Myself.”_

He knew what it meant. He knew everyone who cared about him knew what it meant. He wasn’t the best. He wasn’t better than his twin—that was still an ongoing competition in which he was sure he was winning. He wasn’t better than the prodigies, but man, did he keep up a good fight against them. He wasn’t the best, but he was fine being second best. He’d achieved that all by himself.

Atsumu had worked on himself more than he had worked in anything else, and he was proud of it.

It took him too much time to realise that, perhaps, winning against himself was more fulfilling than against others. He was his own competition, the only person fit to challenge him, the only one who could grow alongside him, developing skills, gaining confidence, experience, wins and losses. For a competitive person, there was no better competition than themselves.

Atsumu Miya was proud of what he had achieved by challenging himself.

That was more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. this is the first thing i've ever written from start to finish so let's take a moment to appreciate it
> 
> 2\. if you've reached this point, thank you for reading this!! it means a lot <3
> 
> 3\. i'm sorry about the lack of dialogue or consistent plot, this was mainly intended to be just a word dump and that's it
> 
> 4\. i know inarizaki won against karasuno at the 2014 spring nationals and not the interhigh but shhh let's pretend dateko went to the spring one ok thank you
> 
> 5\. you can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/melpomeine)


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